


Edge of the Dawn

by amyfortuna



Series: Elements of Maedhros [5]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Comfort, Forgiveness, Found Family, M/M, Redemption, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 08:48:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3350624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/pseuds/amyfortuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the end of the Third Age and Elrond, ever the healer, has a welcome message for a certain Feanorian wanderer. And in the Halls of Mandos, Maedhros waits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Edge of the Dawn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mitsuhachi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mitsuhachi/gifts).



In Lindon near the coast, not far from the Grey Havens, stands the ruin of an ancient house, stones crumbled into the soft earth at the foot of the hills there. Two full Ages of the world after the building and falling of that house, Elrond rode to its borders. He dismounted, tracing his steps to where the doors, long rotted now, once had been, and inside a large room, the ruins of a stone fireplace. 

He stood before the fireplace, hands behind his back, in silent contemplation, for some time. Eventually what looked to be a bundle of old rags stirred in the corner, and his erstwhile Feanorian father sat up and looked at him, blinking weary eyes. 

Elrond made his way over and sat down on a large rock next to Maglor. “It is almost my time,” he said at last. “Sauron has fallen, the Ring is destroyed, and my daughter has gone to meet her fate, even as Luthien did.” 

Maglor said nothing, but put out a white-scarred hand that looked as if it would never play the harp again. Elrond took it in both his own, feeling its coldness and the slow beat of the pulse underneath the fragile wrist-bones. “Come with us,” he said. “I cannot bear to leave you here.”

Maglor spoke with a voice that cracked from long disuse. “You have always been unfailingly kind, Elrond, even to those who do not deserve it. But you cannot think that the Valar will be.” He met Elrond’s eyes. “And far more than fading here, I fear the Darkness.”

“You will not be sent into the Darkness,” Elrond said firmly. “For I bring a message to you from one of the Istari, given to him by Mandos himself.” 

Maglor looked up with a new light in his eyes, a brief, brilliant, flicker of hope. 

“This he bade me tell you, son of Feanor. You have wandered long in Darkness, and the Darkness was of your own making. Yet your story is not done, and your song yet unfinished. If you choose at the last to put aside your fear and pride, you can once again sing in the starlight of the Western Seas, and find rest for all your sorrows.” Elrond took a deep breath. “And this I add: that you are not without those who love you. Across the Sea, your wife and mother await you, and your brothers need you.” His voice caught on the next words and it was the voice of the child he was long ago. “And I too, _ada_ , I would not have you stay behind.” 

Maglor reached out with his other hand, and pulled Elrond down into a hug. All the years between had vanished and Elrond was once more the little healer of long ago, mending broken Feanorians with hugs and tears. Slow gasping sobs of relief escaped Maglor, and for a time he could hardly breathe as the weight of guilt was lifted from him. 

“I will go with thee,” he said at last, muffled against Elrond’s shoulder. And then he drew back, mind already busy. “I will have to think of a new ending for the Noldolante, now.” He smiled up at Elrond. 

Elrond rose, pulling Maglor up with him. “In my house there are many places to sit and think of new and old songs. But there will be at least one mortal who will wish to speak with you about translating the Noldolante. Tell me, in all your wanderings, did you not hear of hobbits?”

“Hobbits?” Maglor said. “A strange name.” They were walking back toward Elrond’s horse now. 

“A strange folk,” Elrond answered. “A new folk, in none of the old lists and songs.”

Maglor stopped dead. “Say not that I must rewrite the _Lore of Living Creatures_!” 

Elrond laughed. “Nay, I heard tell that the Ents have already done so, adding a line for the hobbitkind.” 

“The Ents!” Maglor exclaimed, horrified. “What other terrible things have happened to the state of songsmithery while I wandered witlessly? Will you next tell me that our people sing _‘tra-la-la-lally’_ when the moon is full on Midsummer nights? 

“Not in my hearing, at any rate,” Elrond laughed. “Come then, to the Valley of Imladris, and find out for yourself!” 

Elrond mounted the horse, and drew Maglor up behind him, and together they raced off toward the East, vanishing in the fading shadows amongst the trees. 

——

Maedhros awoke to darkness. Yet it was not the cold dark that he feared but a warm darkness, surrounding him on all sides. He was suspended, perfectly comfortable, perfectly at rest. His eyes were closed but he felt no need to open them. 

Memory was slow to return. Flashes of blue and gold crossed his mind from time to time. A laughing face flickered across the surface of his mind. There was something so important about that face, those eyes, that smile. His thoughts poured through him like slow syrup, hazy and distant, unhurried. There was a sense of having passed through a great nightmare, of awakening from a dream to find a window that showed the edge of the dawn peering forth, and knowing that after night, day was now come. 

After a long time, he became aware that his hands were being held in the darkness. And all at once, the memory came back that he only had one hand. Yet both were being held. He squeezed the left one, experimentally, and the hand squeezed back gently. He did the same with the right one, and again the hand squeezed back, but this time the thumb of the hand that held his caressed him lovingly. And the name came to him, _Findekano_. It was even so that Findekano had caressed his hand, so long ago, so far away. 

He could feel now the beat of his heart, strong and steady, and the warmth of his limbs. He was covered in some dark warm cloth, and beneath it, he opened his eyes for the first time. 

A little light filtered through. Above him, the two figures that were holding his hands sat on either side of him. He was lying on a bed and he could just see their shadows. A bright keen scent began to fill the air, and he could feel himself becoming more and more awake by the moment. 

Now he was conscious of breathing in and out, and of sounds outside. The figure on his right shifted slightly and again stroked his thumb over Maedhros’ hand. 

And now at last he became aware of another presence in the room, one standing at his head, both hands pressed against his skull with gentle pressure. 

“Call him now, Findekano,” the third presence said. 

“Maitimo,” a beloved voice whispered in the darkness. “Maitimo.” The hands on his head fell away, and he could move, could speak, at last. 

“Fin…” he breathed, and the light was growing stronger now. “Findekano. Love.” 

Someone pulled the cloth away from his face, and he was looking up into Fingon’s welcoming eyes. 

“Where am I?” he said in wonder. 

It was not Fingon who answered him, but the figure behind him. “You are in the Halls of Mandos, Maitimo son of Feanaro,” a voice said, firm but gentle. “Your deeds have been looked upon, and pity has been granted you, for you have suffered greatly, and many have pleaded for your release, these two not least. If you wish it, you may now go forth from this place in the keeping of your family, thence to abide in Aman until the unmaking of Arda.” 

Maedhros looked from Fingon’s face to the one on his left side and saw there Elrond, smiling. And over him peace came. 

“I do wish it,” he said. Beside him, he heard a great sigh of relief, and then he was being kissed most throughly by Fingon. Elrond laughed, and made as if to move away, but Maedhros would not let him go. 

“Stay, stay, little healer,” he said, laughing himself as the kiss broke and he sat up, hair disheveled. Beneath the blanket he was clothed in a white robe, and he set his feet to to the floor as they both helped him stand. The ground felt shaky and tentative, learning newly to walk again, but at last he was standing firm, Fingon’s arm around his waist, Elrond at his shoulder. 

A door opened at the far side of the room, and through it Maedhros could see far green fields under a morning sky. He turned back to speak, to thank the third figure, but no one was there. 

Fingon caught the gesture, and smiled up at him. “Are you ready to begin anew?” he said. 

“I will follow you anywhere,” Maedhros answered, and together they walked out into the dawn.


End file.
